A Home at the End of the World, Michael Cunningham
As the salesman worked through his spiel, a lender woman walked by, carrying twins in a knapsack-like contraption. She was less than beautiful, with shaggy matte brown hair, and a sharp, shrewd little chin. Her eyes - her whole body - looked tired in a profound, almost permanent way, as if no amount of rest would ever quite restore her. Still, she possessed a sure-footed self-assurance that lent weight to the bright aisle she walked in search of the correct yard tool. Her twins stared with puzzled absorption at the empty air directly in front of them. As she made her way along the aisle, I thought of how firmly anchored her life must be, for all its domestic hardship. A year from today, her twins would be walking and speaking. A year from today she would know exactly how much time had passed.